Red Angel (33 page)

Martínez’s words were cut off by the unmistakable crack of a rifle. Wood splintered off the wall of the house, and Devlin instinctively pushed Adrianna to the floor of the porch. Below, Martínez’s men guarding the captured Abakua turned toward the hillside and returned fire.

“Get her inside,” Devlin growled. He jumped over the porch rail and hit the dirt road running for the hillside.

Pitts followed, his pistol barking two covering shots up into the hill.

“Go left, Ollie,” Devlin shouted. “I’ll take the right.”

Devlin hit the thick foliage and started a slow, weaving pattern up the hill. Two shots cracked over his head, cutting into covering vegetation ten feet above him. His mind registered the position of the shots, and he realized the shooter wasn’t aiming low enough, was failing to compensate for the sharp, downhill angle. He cut right, and moved up again. To his left, Ollie fired two more rounds, trying to draw return fire. Behind them, Martínez shouted an order, and the guns of the Cuban cops fell silent. Devlin was certain Martínez would be moving up behind them, and he called out a warning to Pitts.

Devlin crawled the final ten yards, using the thick vegetation for cover, then stopped three feet short of the roadway at the top of the hill. He could see a car parked ten feet to his left, and decided to gamble that it belonged to the shooter, and that the man would be closer to the car rather than farther away.

He rolled out into the road, then crawled behind the car and circled it. From the other side, he looked down the hill and saw a man, set in shooter’s sitting position, four feet below. He caught movement to his right and saw Ollie climbing over a small hump in the terrain. The shooter saw him, too, and swung the rifle in that direction.

Devlin didn’t wait; he scrambled to his feet, let out a warning shout to Pitts, then launched himself over the edge of the hill. The shooter was spinning to the sound of his shout as Devlin’s body crashed into his side. The rifle flew off into the foliage as they both tumbled down the hill.

Devlin struggled to his feet, and found the man already up, about three feet below him. A long-bladed knife flashed in his hand.

Argudin feinted to his right, then lunged forward, the tip of his blade aimed at Devlin’s solar plexus in an upward killing thrust.

Devlin’s arm lashed out, knocking the blade aside, but not before it bit into his forearm, just above the wrist. He drove his knee into Argudin’s face, then grabbed his knife hand and spun him to the ground.

They snuggled to their knees, their bodies twisting for advantage. Argudin growled and grabbed for Devlin’s throat. Devlin butted his forehead into the man’s face, knocking the hand away.

Still holding fast to Argudin’s knife hand, Devlin brought his free hand down, then up, slapping his palm into the man’s groin. His fingers closed on his testicles and he yanked upward, bringing a long howl of pain. The knife fell to the ground, and Devlin released the man’s wrist and drove the now free hand into his throat, then squeezed with both hands, using the man’s throat and balls to pull him to his feet.

Argudin howled again as Devlin yanked up, lifting him
still higher, then propelled his body out and away, and threw him down the hill.

“Oooh. I bet that smarts.”

Devlin turned and saw Pitts grinning at him.

“That dude’s girlfriend sure ain’t gonna be a happy lady
tonight.
” Pitts was still grinning as he stepped forward and bent to look at Devlin’s damaged arm. “Looks like he got in a lick, but not a very good one.” He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and began wrapping the wound.

Devlin turned and looked downhill. Argudin lay writhing on the ground ten feet below him.

“Don’t worry,” Pitts said. “That boy is
not
about to run off. Not with his balls all squished up like mashed peas.” He let out a coarse laugh.

Below, Devlin saw Martínez and three of his men break through the foliage and reach the fallen shooter. Martínez placed his hands on his hips as he studied the man twisting in pain at his feet. Then he looked up at Devlin and gave him a nod of approval.

The half-moon sat above the sea, sending out a rippling beam of liquid gold. Water lapped gently against the shore no more than twenty yards from the road. Adrianna stared out the open car window and thought about the violence they had just witnessed and the soft, peaceful scene that lay before her now. It was as though the sea needed to exert calm, she thought, to bring everything back, to let everyone find their lives again.

She reached out and took Devlin’s hand. “How’s your arm?” she asked. “Does it hurt much?”

“It’s fine.” He glanced at the freshly bandaged wound, then smiled at her. “Knives,” he said. “Whenever I get myself into something, there always seems to be somebody with a knife.”

“You’re going to look like a quilt if you don’t retire,” she said.

He grunted in reply, not wanting to deal with her unspoken question. “Are you okay?” he asked. “That wasn’t very easy for you back there.”

Martínez’s car passed over a narrow, steel bridge that
spanned a small, tidal river. Children played near the road on the other side. Most looked ten, maybe twelve, a few younger. The smaller ones were probably little brothers and sisters, Adrianna thought. It was eleven at night, and they all still wore bathing suits.

They were in Guanabo now, the small seaside village where, years ago, her grandfather had taken his family to enjoy the sea. She wondered if her father and her two aunts had been like these children, laughing and playing late into the night.

“Those children are still out, still playing,” Adrianna said, now avoiding
his
question. “It’s as if they don’t want to give up the day.”

Devlin squeezed her hand. He thought he understood what was going through her mind, what she was feeling. He realized that talking about it wouldn’t help her. Not now. They could do that later when she was ready.

He looked at Pitts and Martínez in the front seat. Ollie had his head back and seemed to be dozing. Martínez drove, glancing occasionally at the houses they passed.

“Tell me about this place,” Devlin said. “Ever since we found out who you really are, your skills as a tour guide have fallen off.”

“You are right,” Martínez said. “My intention was to instruct you about my country.” He paused. “And to distract you at times.” He briefly took his hands from the wheel, holding them up in a “what can I say?” gesture. “But I found I also enjoyed it. Perhaps I have discovered a new vocation for my retirement years.”

Pitts grunted, letting them know he was awake and listening. “Hey, that tour-guide business might work, Martínez. You and your boys could keep even better tabs on the tourists.”

Martínez laughed. “You misunderstand the duties of the secret police, my friend. We do not watch foreign visitors.
There are others who have that duty. We watch the people who
watch
the foreigners. And we watch the other police and the government officials who might be serving their own interests instead of the revolution’s. It is not unlike your own government and police agencies, I think. They all have their divisions of internal affairs, no?”

Pitts sat up in his seat as if someone had goosed him. “Jesus, Martínez. Don’t say that. Don’t tell me I’ve been working with the goddamn Cuban shooflies.” He turned to Devlin. “Holy shit, you can’t tell anybody about this, Inspector. God, I’ll be ruined, anybody finds out.”

Devlin waved him off. “Tell me about this place, Martínez.”

Martínez put his arm out the window and pointed toward the houses they were passing. They were like beach houses in many seaside communities back in the States, almost all uniformly small, somewhat battered, and well worn by the sea.

“Guanabo has always been a place of escape. In the days before the revolution it was only the oligarchy who could do this. They would flee the pressures of Havana with their families and come here to rest and enjoy the pleasures of the ocean.

“When the new government took power, many of the houses were given to the people of the region. None were taken by the leaders of the revolution. It was something that was not done in those years.” He cocked his head to one side, in what Devlin thought of as a gesture of regret. “Our ideals were more pure then,” he added.

“And later?” Devlin asked.

“Later those attitudes changed. But mostly among those who held high posts below the leaders.” He glanced back at Adrianna. “Of course there were those like your aunt, who kept houses that had been in their families for years. In her case, I know for a fact, it was more an act of sentiment, a way of remembering her family and what their life together had been like.”

“So some of these beach houses belong to the big shots,” Devlin said.

“Yes, some.”

Devlin thought he detected a note of bitterness in his voice. “You are a purist, aren’t you, Martínez?” he said.

“Yes, I am afraid you are right. There is little I would not do to preserve our revolution, or at least the good I believe it has done. But at times it seems a losing battle.”

“But you still fight it,” Adrianna said.

“
Sí.
Yes, still I fight.” He glanced back again. “Your aunt often called me the Cuban Don Quixote. I am afraid, at times, she was right.”

“But she was the same,” Adrianna said. “Everything I’ve ever heard about her says so. You told me she even argued with Castro.”

“Yes. Yes.” He laughed. “But if I had called her
Doña
Quixote, she would have chased me down the street.”

Adrianna looked toward the sea, her mind filled with her aunt. “I wish I could have seen her here. Here in Cuba. In her real element.”

Martínez said nothing. He slowed the car. “Up ahead, on that small rise of beach, overlooking the sea. That is the house.”

Adrianna stared out the window. The house was small and neat, with a cluster of coconut palms off to one side, the fronds swaying now in the soft breeze that came off the water. There was a porch that appeared to encircle the entire house, and as their car drew closer, she could see beach chairs placed about it, all of them arranged to face the sea.

There were lights on inside the house, and Adrianna saw shadows on the porch she thought were men. “Do you have people here?” she asked.

Devlin had been lost in his own thoughts, his weariness, and the pain that throbbed in his arm. Now his eyes snapped
toward the house. He could see them, too, at least three men, posted well apart. Guards watching every approach.

“How long have you had them here?” he asked.

Martínez ignored him. He picked up his handheld radio. “Let me give a warning that it is only us,” he said.

He spoke rapidly as he pulled the car into the sandy drive that cut into the front yard, then stepped out quickly as one of his men approached. Devlin noticed the man was carrying an Ingram M-10 submachine gun, fitted with a sionic suppressor. It was a small weapon, easily concealed, only ten inches long with the wire stock collapsed, but still capable of repelling a large force, spitting out seven hundred .45-caliber rounds per minute, the suppressor assuring that each round was no louder than a book lightly slapping against a table.

Devlin climbed out of the car, followed by Adrianna and Pitts. He nodded at the weapon. “Pretty heavy firepower, Martínez. And it won’t even wake up the neighbors.”

He could see a faint smile play across the man’s lips as he turned and started toward the house. “Come,” Martínez said. “It is time to finish our little adventure.”

They climbed the front stairs. Another of Martínez’s men opened the front door, then stepped aside to allow Adrianna to enter first. The others followed her into the house, then watched as she seemed to stagger, then come to an abrupt stop.

Across the room, a woman sat in a chair. She was in her early to mid sixties, and her right arm and shoulder were wrapped in heavy bandages.

Adrianna let out a gasp, then raced to her. She fell at the woman’s feet, and Devlin could hear her voice, broken by sobs, begin a rapid, stuttering, disbelief-filled series of questions. The woman cupped the back of her head with one hand and pulled her against her breast and began to whisper soothingly against her cheek.

“Dr. María Mendez,” Devlin said.

Martínez nodded. He was fighting off another smile. “
Sí
, my friend. You are about to meet our beloved Red Angel.” He looked up, eyes twinkling. “When did you realize?”

“Not until I saw your men outside. Then it finally clicked. It was just too much firepower to guard a letter locked in a hidden safe.” He shook his head. “You’re a weasel, Martínez. You had me right up to the last minute. I knew something was phony all along, but I never suspected this.”

Martínez let out a soft laugh. “What is this weasel you are calling me?”

“It’s a sneaky, devious animal. It means you are a royal son of a bitch, Major—or General, or whatever the hell you are.”

Martínez clapped Devlin lightly on the shoulder. “Ah, that is a weasel. Yes, I am all those things. But only when necessary. And this time I assure you it was very necessary to be such a weasel. I could not risk Cabrera finding out that his assassination attempt failed. Even the police officers who came upon the scene were transferred to duties outside the city to make sure the truth would not get back to him.”

“So there
was
an attempt on her life. That part was real.”

“Oh yes. And it came close to success. The Abakua forced her car from the road, and it burst into flames when it crashed. Fortunately, our Red Angel was thrown from the car. She was found later, still unconscious, when officers stumbled on the scene before the Abakua could finish the task Cabrera had given them.”

“And the body?”

“A friend of our Red Angel. And a most fortuitous event. Except for the fact this woman was killed.” He made an obligatory gesture of regret. “You see, this woman was close to our Red Angel in age and size, and she had no family of her own who might raise questions. Also her body was so badly burned, she could easily be mistaken for the owner of the car.